face was alive with radiance. "I've known it a long time. Grant says
they're not, but they are. If you could see them you'd know, too. They're not like anything else. More real
than, well, than this." He thumped the wall. "More real than that."
Ryan lit a cigarette slowly. "Go on."
It all came with a rush. "More real than anything else! Like looking through a window. A
window into another world. A real world. Much more real than this. It makes all this just a shadow
world. Only dim shadows. Shapes. Images."
"Shadows of an ultimate reality?"
"Yes! Exactly. The world behind all this." Jon paced back and forth, animated by excitement.
"This, all these things. What we see here. Buildings. The sky. The cities. The endless ash. None is quite
real. It's so dim and vague! I don't really feel it, not like the other. And it's becoming less real, all the time.
The other is growing, Ryan. Growing more and more vivid! Grant told me it's only my imagination. But
it's not. It's real. More real than any of these things here, these things in this room."
"Then why can't we all see it?"
"I don't know. I wish you could. You ought to see it, Ryan. It's beautiful. You'd like it, after you
got used to it. It takes time to adjust."
Ryan considered. "Tell me," he said at last. "I want to know exactly what you see. Do you
always see the same thing?"
"Yes. Always the same. But more intensely."
"What is it? What do you see that's so real?"
Jon did not answer for awhile. He seemed to have withdrawn. Ryan waited, watching his son.
What was going on in his mind? What was he thinking? The boy's eyes were shut again. His hands were
pressed together, the fingers white. He was off again, off in his private world.
"Go on," Ryan said aloud.
So it was visions the boy saw. Visions of ultimate reality. Like the Middle Ages. His own son.
There was a grim irony in it. Just when it seemed they had finally licked that proclivity in man, his eternal
inability to face reality. His eternal dreaming. Would science never be able to realize its ideal? Would man
always go on preferring illusion to reality?
His own son. Retrogression. A thousand years lost. Ghosts and gods and devils and the secret
inner world. The world of ultimate reality. All the fables and fictions and metaphysics that man had used
for centuries to compensate for his fear, his terror of the world. All the dreams he had made up to hide
the truth, the harsh world of reality. Myths, religions, fairy tales. A better land, beyond and above.
Paradise. All coming back, reappearing again, and in his own son.
"Go on," Ryan said impatiently. "What do you see?"
"I see fields," Jon said. "Yellow fields as bright as the sun. Fields and parks. Endless parks.
Green, mixed in with the yellow. Paths, for people to walk."
Green, mixed in with the yellow. Paths, for people to walk."
"Men and women. In robes. Walking along the paths, among the trees. The air fresh and sweet.
The sky bright blue. Birds. Animals. Animals moving through the parks. Butterflies. Oceans. Lapping
oceans of clear water."
"No cities?"
"Not like our cities. Not the same. People living in the parks. Little wood houses here and there.
Among the trees."
"Roads?"
"Only paths. No ships or anything. Only walking."
"What else do you see?"
"That's all." Jon opened his eyes. His cheeks were flushed. His eyes sparkled and danced.
"That's all, Ryan. Parks and yellow fields. Men and women in robes. And so many animals. The
wonderful animals."
"How do they live?"
"What?"
"How do the people live? What keeps them alive?"
"They grow things. In the fields."
"Is that all? Don't they build? Don't they have factories?"
"I don't think so."
"An agrarian society. Primitive." Ryan frowned. "No business or commerce."
"They work in the fields. And discuss things."
"Can you hear them?"
"Very faintly. Sometimes I can hear them a little, if I listen very hard. I can't make out any words,
though."
"What are they
they're not, but they are. If you could see them you'd know, too. They're not like anything else. More real
than, well, than this." He thumped the wall. "More real than that."
Ryan lit a cigarette slowly. "Go on."
It all came with a rush. "More real than anything else! Like looking through a window. A
window into another world. A real world. Much more real than this. It makes all this just a shadow
world. Only dim shadows. Shapes. Images."
"Shadows of an ultimate reality?"
"Yes! Exactly. The world behind all this." Jon paced back and forth, animated by excitement.
"This, all these things. What we see here. Buildings. The sky. The cities. The endless ash. None is quite
real. It's so dim and vague! I don't really feel it, not like the other. And it's becoming less real, all the time.
The other is growing, Ryan. Growing more and more vivid! Grant told me it's only my imagination. But
it's not. It's real. More real than any of these things here, these things in this room."
"Then why can't we all see it?"
"I don't know. I wish you could. You ought to see it, Ryan. It's beautiful. You'd like it, after you
got used to it. It takes time to adjust."
Ryan considered. "Tell me," he said at last. "I want to know exactly what you see. Do you
always see the same thing?"
"Yes. Always the same. But more intensely."
"What is it? What do you see that's so real?"
Jon did not answer for awhile. He seemed to have withdrawn. Ryan waited, watching his son.
What was going on in his mind? What was he thinking? The boy's eyes were shut again. His hands were
pressed together, the fingers white. He was off again, off in his private world.
"Go on," Ryan said aloud.
So it was visions the boy saw. Visions of ultimate reality. Like the Middle Ages. His own son.
There was a grim irony in it. Just when it seemed they had finally licked that proclivity in man, his eternal
inability to face reality. His eternal dreaming. Would science never be able to realize its ideal? Would man
always go on preferring illusion to reality?
His own son. Retrogression. A thousand years lost. Ghosts and gods and devils and the secret
inner world. The world of ultimate reality. All the fables and fictions and metaphysics that man had used
for centuries to compensate for his fear, his terror of the world. All the dreams he had made up to hide
the truth, the harsh world of reality. Myths, religions, fairy tales. A better land, beyond and above.
Paradise. All coming back, reappearing again, and in his own son.
"Go on," Ryan said impatiently. "What do you see?"
"I see fields," Jon said. "Yellow fields as bright as the sun. Fields and parks. Endless parks.
Green, mixed in with the yellow. Paths, for people to walk."
Green, mixed in with the yellow. Paths, for people to walk."
"Men and women. In robes. Walking along the paths, among the trees. The air fresh and sweet.
The sky bright blue. Birds. Animals. Animals moving through the parks. Butterflies. Oceans. Lapping
oceans of clear water."
"No cities?"
"Not like our cities. Not the same. People living in the parks. Little wood houses here and there.
Among the trees."
"Roads?"
"Only paths. No ships or anything. Only walking."
"What else do you see?"
"That's all." Jon opened his eyes. His cheeks were flushed. His eyes sparkled and danced.
"That's all, Ryan. Parks and yellow fields. Men and women in robes. And so many animals. The
wonderful animals."
"How do they live?"
"What?"
"How do the people live? What keeps them alive?"
"They grow things. In the fields."
"Is that all? Don't they build? Don't they have factories?"
"I don't think so."
"An agrarian society. Primitive." Ryan frowned. "No business or commerce."
"They work in the fields. And discuss things."
"Can you hear them?"
"Very faintly. Sometimes I can hear them a little, if I listen very hard. I can't make out any words,
though."
"What are they
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